


so well as you

by miladys



Category: Emma (TV 2009), Emma - Jane Austen
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Marriage, Much Ado About Nothing References, Post-Canon, Reading Aloud
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:06:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28389744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miladys/pseuds/miladys
Summary: “We shall not be able to finish the play for another two weeks, I suppose,” Emma says as they start back towards Hartfield. “So I shall not know what becomes of this plot to kill Claudio until then.”“You will wait in suspense, I am sure.”“I do like this play much better than some of the other ones I have read. And I know you will find it egregious for me to say so, as I know you think them brilliant, but the tragedies are not nearly as high in my esteem. I do not like anything too horrid.”“Well,” Knightley says cheekily. “I did think a play with a matchmaking plot would be more to your liking.”---Or, in which Mr. and Mrs. Knightley get a little distracted while apple-picking and discuss Shakespeare.
Relationships: George Knightley/Emma Woodhouse
Comments: 4
Kudos: 69





	so well as you

**Author's Note:**

> Because I just finished rewatching Emma (2009) and there aren't enough fics about these two. (Also, one of my biggest non-sexual romantic fantasies is to have a partner read aloud to me, but maybe that's just a 'me' thing.)

As Emma Knightley (née Woodhouse) stares up at the ripe, red apple dangling from a branch over her head, she finds her mind wandering to Miss Bates. 

After all, the apples at Donwell Abbey are some of the best in the country - and perhaps all of the world - as Miss Bates frequently reminds them. These comments had inspired Mr. Knightley's scheme. The apple trees at Donwell full to bursting, they can probably feed the whole village of Highbury, and still have more than enough for themselves. He suggested that they walk into town after their afternoon sojourn, and Emma had readily agreed. So, in the morning they had walked from Hartfield to Donwell, a basket on Emma's arm, both of them wrapped tightly in several scarves at Mr. Woodhouse's vehement insistence, for he feared that they might catch a chill – and chills, though innocent-sounding enough, are nothing to be so cavalier about, you know – even though it was only a relatively mild day in September.

But now, as the crisp morning fades into a sunny afternoon, Emma smiles to herself, thinking that their plans have been thoroughly abandoned. The air is fragrant and cool, the sunshine warm on her cheeks, and the day feels pregnant with possibility. The apple above her head is so close she could reach her arm out and grab it, but she is content to remain lying down, her head in her husband's lap, the breeze through the orchard tickling her face. The leaves, just beginning to turn golden, rustle. _This,_ She thinks. _Must be pure bliss._

(If her father could see them, however, he would be truly horrified. Their many scarves lie in a heap at the edge of the picnic blanket, no more than an afterthought.) 

Emma closes her eyes, enjoying the familiar cadence of her husband's voice. “I do love nothing in the world so well as you.” He reads aloud from the battered edition of a Shakespeare play he thought she would like, the pages fraying, the corners folding from years of love and good use. The hand he uses to turn the pages falls to gently brush a stray curl from her brow, and his touch lingers a beat longer, fingers tenderly stroking the plane of her cheek as if she is something beautiful and holy. “Is not that strange?” 

Emma is not certain every word of his tale has registered. More often than not, she finds her mind drifting from the contents of the play, instead focusing on the here and now as she revels at this moment, enjoying the warmth of his body, the fine weather of the autumn afternoon, and the felicity in their perfect solitude. 

“As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you, but believe me not, and yet I lie not. I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing…”

In many aspects, their relationship has not altered much in the months since their union. Practically her entire life, Mr. Knightley has been welcomed at Hartfield as if it were his own home, and he has been a regular fixture in her life since her infancy. There was rarely a day he was not there, sitting in the same chair as always, welcomed to dinners and drinks and games of cards. Even when he was not present, he had not been forgotten, as Mr. Woodhouse denounced the dangers of the city or whatever place it was that had called Mr. Knightley away from them, and professed to Emma his dearest wish that Mr. Knightley should return soon without illness or injury. Yes, it is impossible to remember a life without him in it, for he had always been there. And yet, now that they are married, he has become intimately more dear to her. Often, Emma finds herself marveling at the happiness he brings her, simply by being her husband. To think, this time a year ago, she had thought herself perfectly content to never marry! How wrong she had been. Had she stuck to her resolve, she never would have discovered the joy found in the littlest of moments between faithful and ardent spouses: the touch of bare skin, a walk hand in hand, a brush of the lips, a warm embrace at bedtime. How much profound happiness she can now find in one moment with her dearest Knightley! Their marriage had in some ways changed nothing. Yet it also changed everything. 

_There are no more goodbyes at the end of the day,_ She thinks to herself, smiling. _For our lives on this earth are perfectly entwined, as close as two souls can be._

There is the sound of a book closing, and it is only then that Emma realizes he has finished reading. “Well, my dear,” Mr. Knightley says. “What do you think?”

Emma realizes she has not registered any of the words since Beatrice and Benedick professed their love. Her mind has wandered somewhere else entirely. How much longer had he been reading after that? Mr. Knightley is looking at her expectantly as Emma turns her face upward to meet his gaze. “It was quite beautiful.”

One of his eyebrows raises in a quizzical look. “Beatrice asking Benedick to kill Claudio was quite beautiful?” 

Emma can feel her face flush. She has been caught. “Oh, I meant…the verse was…” The corners of his lips quirk up into an amused smile, and she knows he does not believe her. Why must he know her so well? She can never lie to him, he sees through her instantly. “Oh my Mr. Knightley, you know how my mind wanders. To read requires so much patience and concentration. And how can I focus on Mr. Shakespeare’s words when the real world around me here is so full of life and activity? There is so much to ponder, so much to do!”

“Books are full of life and activity, too, if you have the patience for it. You say you wish to see the world, my dear. Well, the world is here at your fingertips. You can travel to Italy or Cyprus or the East Indies with one turn of the page.”

She sits up and turns her body to face his. The book is placed face down on the blanket, his hand coming to rest gently on her back. “Ah, there you are, scolding me again! That is the Mr. Knightley I know.”

“I only jest, my love. And you have always said you wish to read more.”

“I know, but why should I read myself when your voice is so much more pleasing?” Her lips curve into a soft smile as she examines his countenance. “And why should I wish to travel to Italy or Cyprus or the East Indies when I am so content with where I am right now?”

He smiles too, eyes going soft, and Emma feels pleased with herself, knowing how happy her response has secretly made him. “Well,” He says. “I think that is enough for the day. My voice is quite tired, and if we linger for much longer, your father will indubitably worry and believe us dead.”

A laugh bursts from her lips as she imagines the look her father will surely give them. “Ha, what a real scolding we shall have then, God help us.” Mr. Knightley takes her hand to help her up, and with slight reluctance, they gather their things, including the apples they had managed to collect before their attentions had waned. Given the hour, it is quickly decided that they will bring the apples to Miss Bates tomorrow morning, and return home at present. Mr. Woodhouse will fret if they are not home in time for tea. Mr. Knightley's hand is warm and familiar in hers as they stride towards home. Emma's basket sways on the crook of her elbow, Mr. Knightley's volume of Shakespeare is tucked underneath his arm, and the scarves forced upon them by Mr. Woodhouse once more hang around their necks, but in a decidedly more haphazard fashion. 

“We shall not be able to finish the play for another two weeks, I suppose,” Emma says as they start back towards Hartfield. “So I shall not know what becomes of this plot to kill Claudio until then.”

“You will wait in suspense, I am sure.”

“I do like this play much better than some of the other ones I have read. And I know you will find it egregious for me to say so, as I know you think them brilliant, but the tragedies are not nearly as high in my esteem. I do not like anything too horrid.”

“Well,” Knightley says cheekily. “I did think a play with a matchmaking plot would be more to your liking.”

“Oh, now you mock me!” She pauses, turning to look at his face, cast in a glow from the light of the sun. “Must you really go to London, George?”

He turns to examine her directly. Even now that they are man and wife, she only uses his Christian name in special instances when they are alone together, either moments of great intimacy or great seriousness. She supposes this moment is both, and she knows her face must betray her disappointment, as George frowns as well. “You have spent two weeks apart from me before.”

“Yes, and now I do not know how I managed it, for the mere thought of you being gone so long pains me.”

He nods. “I do not like it either, but I have not been since before we were married, and even then I barely accomplished anything, so preoccupied by the thought of you. You could come with me if you like. John and Isabella would be happy to have you.”

She considers it. She has never been to London, and she longs to see the children, her nieces and nephews, but she ultimately shakes her head. “As much as I would like to, Papa would not hear of it. He would surely lecture me on the illnesses that run rampant in cities, and the virtues of country doctors over London physicians.” Seeing that it is now Mr. Knightley's turn to look disappointed, she quickly adds: “But, someday, I would like to.”

This brightens him, and she feels herself brighten as well. Their emotions are so often found to be in time with the other's. Mr. Knightley's sadness is her sadness, and his joy is her joy, and she knows he feels the same. “And I would like that as well.” Mr. Knightley looks at her with eyes full of tenderness, and her stomach does a little flip. “I do so hate to be apart from you, Emma.”

She smiles again. “As do I.” They walk in silence for a bit after that, though in the sort of comfortable silence that can occur between two people so assured of their mutual affection as they are, for to know someone as well as yourself is to be quite content with merely _being_ , no matter what is done or said. 

Hartfield appears over the crest of the hill, and it is Emma who finally breaks the silence. “You know, I do wonder how this play will be resolved. My heart feels for poor Hero. To be hurt so much by the man one loves! It is a terrible thing.” She can not imagine Mr. Knightley hurting her in such a way. She knows he never would. 

“Perhaps he shall make it up to her somehow,” Mr. Knightley suggests. “Though I do not know how one can make up for such egregious transgressions as that. Even Frank Churchill was not so horrible.”

“Oh, my love, do not tell me you are still so worried for poor Jane, after all this time.” Mr. Knightley has never been one of Frank Churchill’s biggest supporters in Highbury, but considering Mr. Churchill is now a happily married man and no longer a rival for Emma’s affections, the dislike has cooled into civility, and when they encounter Mr. and Mrs. Churchill at Randalls or on forays into the village, the two gentlemen always exchange the token pleasantries with no distinct animosity between them, albeit no sense of strong friendship either. 

“Well, he did use her ill,” Mr. Knightley says. “And you as well. He will never be worthy of her love, as far as I am concerned. But I am willing to forgive him, for I think he knows as well as I, that she is too kind and good for him. He is not so bad as Claudio, but should he ever hurt Mrs. Churchill, he should be as much a villain to me as he once was.”

Emma takes her husband’s arm, a smirk toying with her lips. “I do find Beatrice and Benedick a much more apt pairing. Their war of words is not entirely unfamiliar. Though I do wonder – did they love one another all this time, or only after the influence of their friends?”

They are less than a mile from home, and Mr. Knightley turns to look at her with affection in his gaze. “The way I see it,” He tells her. “I think, deep down, they always loved one another. They were just too blind to see it, at first, and in fear that their love would not be returned. All they needed was a push to make them realize how in love they had always been.”

“I believe so too.” It seems so long ago now that Emma realized the depth of her feelings for George. It was only when she thought he loved Jane Fairfax, and then, in turn, Harriet, that she realized her devotion to him, and that there was no life she wanted to live that did not include him. Luckily, now she will never have to imagine that life. “I do love nothing in the world so well as you, George.”

Her husband smiles and gently cups her cheek to bring her lips to his in a kiss. “And I, you.”

Mr. Woodhouse is waiting for them when they finally approach Hartfield, both laughing with the basket between them, a little later than usual. “Where have the two of you been? Come inside! Oh, perhaps I should send for Perry! You shall catch your death in this weather! No concern for your own health…”

“Sorry, Papa,” Emma says. “Mr. Knightley was so caught up in reading to me, we forgot the time. He was scandalized by my lack of knowledge of Shakespeare.”

“Yes,” Mr. Knightley adds. “Severely lacking.” She turns to George, and the two exchange a covert grin.

Mr. Woodhouse does not catch their look, so focused on the improper use of their scarves, he can see but naught else. “Come inside at once! You shall not go out again tonight. And Mr. Knightley, are you sure you _ought_ to go to London? It is so unpredictable…and your health! Emma, dear, you tell your husband. Are you not concerned about his health? Does he not look a bit feverish? Oh, you young people these days! I shall never know what to do with you…” 

And so the Knightleys follow him inside and to the fire, continuing blissfully into this small slice of the perfect happiness of their life together. 


End file.
